


The Hunt for a Celestial Body Like Mine

by bluetears07



Category: Adam (2009), Jagten | The Hunt (2012)
Genre: #EatTheRare, Autism Spectrum, Cooking Lessons, Friends to Lovers, Hunters & Hunting, Language Kink, M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance, Slow Burn, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7827796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After breaking up with Beth, Adam moves to Copenhagen to work on microcircuitry at the Dark Cosmology Centre. While living in one of the quiet suburbs, he meets Lucas and forms a tentative friendship. As they spend more time together, sharing interests and personal histories, their friendship slowly evolves into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in October of 2013 but got bogged down in research (I've actually got a whole bibliography for this fic) and trying to accurately and respectfully portray Adam's perspective despite the fact I am a NT. In the mean time, some other talented writers posted a few stories on AO3 and I got discouraged…but I've been working on it again and with the #EatTheRare Fest happening I thought I might as well post the first chunk.
> 
> Gifset: [Here](http://mischievousmuse.tumblr.com/post/150601050967/the-hunt-for-a-celestial-body-like-mine-after). 
> 
> Translations in hover text.

A half-gallon of whole milk, or more precisely, a full litre of whole milk, splashes over the toes of Adam’s work shoes. The pale liquid sloshes over worn leather and scuffed linoleum; it will take the better part of an hour to scrub the smell out of the well-worn material. Adam dropped the plastic container only seconds before, just as a sudden wave of panic washed over him, seizing his muscles and sending an uncontrollable nervous tremor traveling up his spine. It jitters through his tendons, down his arms to buzz in each one of his twitching fingertips.

Where are the frozen, microwavable macaroni and cheese dinners?

His pulse begins to elevate, pounding in his ears. Short, sharp breaths catch in his throat, his head bobbing along with each ragged inhale. Fingers skitter across the woollen front of his sweater, snagging and pulling at the loose fabric. It feels soft and familiar.

They must carry at least some kind of frozen macaroni and cheese dinner. Four cases of ready meals and yet Adam does not see a single box. After everything, all the changes, all the sacrifices, all disruptions in his everyday routine that he managed to cope with in order to start a new chapter, it is this final hitch that threatens to shatter him apart. It takes a full three minutes of meticulously scanning each individual shelf, stumbling over the unfamiliar words and odd letter combinations, before he finally discovers a meagre two options.

Adam takes in a gulp of cool air.

“Hej?”

A dull noise reverberates off the stale air of the supermarket, cutting through the din of buzzing florescent lights.

The milk container still lays half empty at his feet.

“Hej, er alt i orden?”

It is a haze of sounds, rising and falling to some melody Adam was never taught to understand. Perhaps it is a man’s voice but Adam can barely make out the defined edges of a single word.

A warm hand hovers over his right shoulder. Adam snaps back to himself in time to flinch away from the intrusive touch.

 “There are over thirty brands of frozen macaroni and cheese available in the United States,” he responds quickly, words truncated and curt with a halting cadence. The staccato intonation usually reserved for battling his most tenacious anxieties. “H-how can there be only two options in Denmark?” It comes out as a reflex, an answer without understanding the true content of the voice’s low-pitched inquiry.

“Sorry, what?” The man responds in heavily accented English.

Adam looks over; eyes flicking up to briefly examine the stranger’s face. Wire frame glasses, hints of silver, distinct slopes and angles, coupled with a dress sense similar to his own. Appropriate on the older man, save the utilitarian cargo pants. Bits and fragments of color and textures dominate Adam’s perception as he tries to piece together some kind of patchwork whole. As they begin adding up, he comes to the conclusion that the man seems agreeable. Patient as he quietly waits to listen to Adam. Perhaps even gentle. Adam tries again to explain his predicament in carefully enunciated English. It comes out in a stream of unease, full of hard edges.

“I would like to purchase some frozen macaroni and cheese but there appears to be an extremely limited selection here and the only options available are two brands I have never heard of until this very moment. I do not know wh—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” The man takes a step closer, careful and measured, brows raised, holding his hand palm up in a gesture Adam has been taught is meant to placate him. His father used it often whenever Adam was experiencing the beginnings of a panic attack.

Stop. Breathe. Listen.

The uncanny echo of the motion works. He tries to concentrate on regulating his breathing, immediately dropping his grocery basket to frantically fold his arms tight across his chest.

“Here,” the stranger offers, opening the glass door and picking up one of the brightly coloured boxes. “Buy the two, try them and find the one you like best.” He holds the package out for Adam.

“Okay,” Adam responds, nodding his head sharply. The logic was sound. “Okay. Okay.” He continues, nodding several more times as he takes a few rigid steps toward the gleaming freezer cases and selects the other option. “Thank you,” he says briskly, eyes downcast as he accepts the box from the man. Swooping down, he retrieves his basket and drops both boxes into it. “I’m sorry,” he adds, staring at the puddle of milk the other man stepped in when he tried to comfort Adam. “Farvel.” Quickly, Adam disappears down the closest aisle, the wet souls of his shoes squeaking against the slick surface of the supermarket floor with each step.

Without another glance back at the older man, Adam pauses to reorient himself. His mind races, not only with the macaroni and cheese debacle but the fact that it has only been fifty-six hours and seventeen minutes since he arrived in Denmark and this stranger is the first person outside of work to try and properly engage him.

He carefully stores the details of the man’s face in his memory, going over each unique aspect of its unusual topography as he fumbles for the grocery list in his trouser pocket. Thankfully, once he catches his breath, he finds it much easier to locate the few remaining items he still needs.

A short ten minutes later, basket full of a week’s supply of food, the stranger reappears in the queue directly behind Adam. For a split second, he feels the mounting pressure in his throat, like he should say something to the man. They stand in silence, patiently waiting to pay.

Impulse taking over, he begins to repeatedly rub the pad of his thumb back and forth over the tips of his fingers. He can hear the sound of shoes shuffling behind him, the weight shifting from one foot to the other until the other man softly clears his throat. It startles him. Waves of warmth pulse behind him, they grow warmer as the other man leans forward into his personal space.

“I’m Lucas.” It comes out softly, gentle and Adam cannot help but look back over his shoulder at the prompting.

“Oh, yes.” He flashes a nervous smile, refusing to meet Lucas’ gaze. Instead, he rushes to unload his groceries for the checkout girl to scan. Years of forced social training and education, as well as the previous day of extensive introductions at the Institute, take over despite his instinct to be content with the interaction as it stands. “My name is Adam.” He carefully places the two different packages of frozen macaroni and cheese on the short conveyor belt. “Raki.” Looking at them both Adam realises just how brilliant a solution the man, Lucas, presented to him. Simple and scientific.

A smile twitches up his lips.

“Nice to meet you, Adam.” Distracted by the way one edge of the man’s shirt collars lays trapped beneath the neck of his sweater, pinned down in a ruffled mess of plaid fabric, Adam misses the friendly smile and proffered right hand.

“Yes, thank you. Nice to meet you, Lucas. Goodbye.” Tucking his chin to his chest, Adam gathers his groceries before hurrying off in the direction of his empty flat, leaving Lucas behind without the chance to reciprocate.

 

 

 

Alone in his empty apartment, Adam unpacks and organizes his groceries, carefully stacking the frozen macaroni and cheese dinners inside his new freezer. After a quarter hour’s internal debate, he selects the more brightly colored of the two brands. The dinner photographed on the box looks far superior and more appetizing than the dull, desaturated packaging of its competitor. While both are extraordinarily different from what he is used to back home, it still could work, like Beth’s clever Alfredo solution.

To compensate for the mildly upsetting disturbance in his regular diet, Adam queues up his all-time favourite episode of Inside the Actor’s Studio on his laptop. An old reliable comfort mechanism, one of his father’s most beloved television programmes they often used to watch together during dinner.

Food hot, he curls up on his only piece of furniture, a new mattress, and watches the show. As the theme song plays out, the tightness in his chest begins to ease. The familiar faces and sounds wash over him while his mind races to reconstruction of the complex structure of deep set eyes hidden behind glasses and the tip of a faded collar stuck beneath a blue knit sweater.

 

 

 

Over the course of the next couple weeks the pair run into one another several more times at the market, usually in the ready meal, single serving aisle. Without any forethought or structured thinking on Adam’s behalf, the two men seem to coincidentally be on the same schedule. Each time they cross paths, Lucas makes a point of acknowledging him in some way. Though, the younger man’s response remains a shaky smile accompanied by a curt, low dipping nod before he continues with his single minded shopping trip.

Often in such situations, Adam finds himself overwhelmed with a tough bout of anxiety and the overwhelming pressure to say something more, do something new, but every time he attempts to make eye contact with Lucas he becomes paralyzed. Even the advantage of the man’s glasses as a barrier does nothing to quell the need to avoid his gaze.  The only words that he can think of all relate to his work research or new musings on supermassive black holes and dark matter, which would require far more time to properly discuss. He keeps thinking back to all the times Beth would remind him that not everyone is interested in a long conversation about the ‘obscure’ topics he takes an interest in. So instead he simply remains mute.

When he sends Harlan his weekly email updates he decides to include the appearance of his friendly stranger. Lucas becomes such a part of his routine that Harlan begins asking after him, inquiring if they’ve actually had a ‘real’ conversation yet. But Adam does not know where to begin. After all, they are both men. Who is supposed to initiate their friendship? Does it work the same as his relationship with Beth? Or is this different?

Maybe next week he would ask Harlan.

It’s not until a month, and several brief encounters, later, when Adam stumbles upon Lucas bagging his own groceries at the checkout, that everything changes.

Adam slides the palms of his hands flat against the cloth of his trousers, hyper aware of each confusing detail of Lucas’ stiff posture. His knuckles seem whiter than usual with an excessive amount of grip force on each canned item. Perhaps they are slippery and he does not want to drop them, Adam tries to rationalize the modification. A wayward fold of brown canvas dissipates, pulled tight between his shoulder blades as he leans over to carefully place the last few items into his shopping bag.

“Good evening, Adam.”

Looking up at the sound of his name, Adam catches a glimpse of Lucas readjusting his glasses, the slide of wire down along his shapely nose. Exposed for the briefest moment, he spots a faint scar high on the bridge. The slight impressions on either side of his nose disappear again as the pads slip back into position.

It is the closest he has ever come to meeting Lucas’ gaze.

“Hej, Lucas.” At a loss for the words to follow up the rote greeting, Adam remains quiet. He continues shuffling through several more boxes of macaroni and cheese and a bag of frozen broccoli, unloading his basket to be rung up. Words seem to scatter before him, slipping through the cracks as he tries to find something of merit to prolong their fleeting interaction. Something to stimulate an actual conversation, despite how hard he knows it will be for himself to engage in one outside the scope of his personal interests.

He wants a friend. Not a co-worker, a colleague or a second father figure, simply a friend.

Before Adam can find the right words, he watches as Lucas opens his mouth, hesitates and instead turns to leave the shop, taking a small step toward the exit. Adam’s hands still, watching each small detail shift and reform itself in the angled shapes of Lucas’ broad body. Idly, Adam wonders what he would look like without the various bulky layers he always seems to be bundled in. The ridged line of Lucas’ shoulders slumps slightly to the right, off kilter, uneven, and Adam knows he will spend a few hours trying to decipher the significance behind that particular change in posture. Whatever mysterious transformation occurs, one far beyond Adam’s ability to interpret, the soles of Lucas’ shoes squeak faintly against the linoleum as he hastily spins back around.

“Do you live near here?”

It is subtle, but Adam notices the older man’s accent becomes slightly thicker, a little more difficult to understand over the humming lights. Strange. Brow furrowed, he concentrates harder on deciphering Lucas’ next words, staring intently at the curve and bend of his moving lips while they form each syllable.

“Or, are you just visiting family? Friends?” Lucas asks, supplying a few logical alternatives when Adam does not answer straightaway.

Questions have always been a bit easier, removing the pressure of conjuring up a topic that will please all parties. Instead he simply has to supply information he knows or simply state he is not able to answer. Plus, his father, and several different books Beth recommended, stated that questions are generally the best way to interact and prolong a conversation with neurotypicals. Though, in the past it has led to some very awkward instances when he asks what is apparently the ‘wrong’, or ‘inappropriate’ question.

“An extended holiday?” The repeated prompting drags Adam into action after he quickly pays for his groceries in cash.

“I live eight and a half minutes from here. I work at the Rockefeller Complex near the border between Nørrebro and Østerbro,” Adam explains, speaking a little quickly with excitement as the checkout girl hands him a receipt. “I’m an electronics engineer. I’m working on microcircuits for a project with the Dark Cosmology Centre at the Institute. The Niels Bohr Institute.”

 “Imponerende,” Lucas murmurs in Danish before catching himself and switching back to English. “Very impressive,” he smiles, “you must be very smart.”

“I know a lot of information about a few very, very specific things that interest me,” Adam responds to the observation, the bundle of embarrassment squirming in his stomach vacant in his flat tones. He rubs his thumb back and forth along the cheap cotton handle of his grocery bag.

It is a compliment, Adam tells himself, pausing to note the positive words and corresponding smile. A compliment means he might want to be a friend.

“A good description of cleverness.” Lucas nudges him in the side with his elbow as they leave the store side by side. A supposedly teasing gesticulation that Adam learned a long time ago is meant to be friendly in a funny, conspiratorial way. His dad used to do it when he was a kid, before his diagnosis. It seems so easy, just then, for Lucas, gently reaching out to touch and slowly pull Adam into his orbit. “Fanny.” Lucas whistles and a sweet looking dog jumps up to trot happily over to them.

“Is this your dog?” Adam grins brightly, bending down to scratch the soft patch of fur behind her floppy ears.

“Yes, and she’s very friendly.” Lucas laughs when Fanny immediately starts nuzzling Adam’s hand and licking his fingers. Her tail wagging back and forth. “Klara?”

Confused by the name, Adam looks up sharply. Alone near the edge of the supermarket’s parking lot stands a little girl. Stock still, her eyes traverse the latticework of spidery cracks in the pavement. He watches as Lucas crosses over to her, crouching down to speak with her in hushed Danish. She stares at Lucas with a pair of almond shaped eyes, small, plump fingers pulling at the hem of her olive green jacket. Adam misses the moment her gaze flickers over to examine him, head tilting to the right, wispy blond hair fluttering in the autumn breeze. Lucas glances over his shoulder at Adam, murmuring something to the girl before motioning for him to come join them.

“Sorry, she’s the daughter of a close friend. She’s a bit lost.” He turns back to the girl, gesturing toward Adam with a smile. “Klara, det er min ven, Adam.”

“Hej.” The girl gives Adam a feeble smile, peering out from behind Lucas’ leg.

“Hej, Klara.” He gives her a wave and pulls an overly wide, wobbling smile, tight lipped and hopefully appearing affable rather than a forced grimace. The girl says something to Lucas in Danish, but Adam thinks he hears his name in the jumble of soft sounds.

“Which direction are you going?” Lucas asks, ducking his head to try and catch Adam’s eye over the rim of his glasses.

“Northeastern.”

“So a left,” Lucas responds slowly, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a peculiar, slight smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. The expression recalls the one Beth would give him when he was being ‘too literal’. She claimed that particular smirk denoted amusement, rife with affection rather than any form of nasty ridicule. A very friendly mien.

“Yes. Left,” he confirms, unsure how best to outwardly convey the reciprocal flush of affection spreading through his body upon seeing the smile directed at himself. Instead, his face remains a blank, repeating back the correct option with a corresponding nod.

“Ah, then we are going the same way.” Lucas glances down at Klara with a wide grin that she mirrors, childishly mimicking the adult’s facial features without examining the causal relationship between sight and action. While the two are distracted, Adam tries on the expression. It feels tight and silly so he quickly drops it before Lucas turns back. “Do you mind if Klara and I walk with you for a while?” Adam stares off in the direction of his apartment building for a moment before shaking his head with one jerky movement. He turns left and begins walking.

“How long have you been living in Denmark?” Lucas asks a few seconds later when Klara and he catch up. Somehow he seems to have picked up on the fact that Adam responds better when encouraged with questions rather than leaving it to the younger man to fill the gaps in their conversation.

“A month on Friday.” His thoughts tumble around inside his skull and thankfully he grasps on to one that he thinks Lucas can relate to and decides share it. “I have been studying the language for a while now but the job does not require knowledge of Danish. Languages have always been a bit difficult for me. When I was young my father encouraged me to study French. Though I was never particularly good at it…” he trails off, distracted by the large, calculated steps Klara takes to avoid the cracks in the footpath.

It was never the rules of grammar or the vocabulary but for Adam English idioms were already a struggle thus adding another opaque language of ambiguity and puns was not ideal. Adam would rather focus his efforts on science and the global language of mathematics. But, under his father’s tutelage he did master a bit of French.

“On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux." Adam smiles to himself as the familiar words slip over his tongue, trying his best to echo the way his father used to speak them. They still come out stilted and lacking majority of the grace his father possessed but they comfort all the same.

He hears Klara repeating the words to herself, reaching out to pet Fanny with uncoordinated swipes as she walks alongside her. The French sounding as if it were almost a different language by her childish voice and accent.

“But most of my colleagues are international so they all are fluent in English.”

“Well, this gives me a good chance to practice my English.” Lucas leans in closer, as if telling him a secret, readjusts his grip on his grocery bag with the momentum of his movements. Another smile draws out the creases in his rather pleasant face. “So where in America are you from?”

“New York.” Looking over, he sees Lucas nod. “Manhattan,” he clarifies. “I’ve lived there all my life. Until now.”

“Big change.” There is a significant depth to his tone that confuses Adam. Recognizing the gravitas without any real comprehension, he tucks the sound away in his memory for later examination. “How do you like it?”

“Other than my work, I don’t like it.”

“Oh,” Lucas makes a sound of clear disappointment—one Adam has grown adept at identifying after frequently encountering it all his life. Adam realises perhaps this is an instance where he should have, as Beth always said, ‘sugar coated’ his honest opinion. But it would be a lie and Adam would never start a new friendship with a lie. “I’m sorry.” The response gives Adam pause.

“It is not your fault,” he explains bluntly, stopping to turn to Lucas. He manages to lift his gaze high enough to stare at the bridge of his glasses. “You are very nice.” About to reach out to touch Lucas on the arm, Adam stops short, fingers stiff and awkward between them. “You are an exception. I would like to spend more time with you.” He nods repeatedly with a smile.

“I would like that too, Adam.”

“Good.”

They continue walking in silence for a moment before Adam pauses at the crosswalk.

“I have to make a right here. Goodbye.”

“Wait,” Lucas takes a step closer. “Would you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? A welcome to the neighbourhood meal. Any time after six?” He proposes, digging around in his coat pockets, pulling out a receipt before diving back in. “You have a pen?” Adam flips open his leather messenger bag and easily locates a pen. “I can teach you to make ‘Danish macaroni and cheese’.” Lucas offers with a wide smile that shows off the points of his canines. He hands over the pen and the receipt from the supermarket. Scrawled on the back is his full name and phone number.

It is only when Adam gets home to scour the internet for the non-existent recipe that it was intended as a joke. A startle of a laugh slips from his lips. Though he supposes it will be Danish mac and cheese if Lucas helps cook it with him.


	2. Oktober

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long--hopefully you all enjoy it and I really hope I've maintained Adam's characterization (all feedback on that, and all fronts, is welcome and appreciated).
> 
> Translation in hover text.

After getting home from work the following day, Adam spends nearly half an hour perched on the edge of his mattress staring at his open closet. All ten of his pre-coordinated outfits dangle off the cheap plastic hangers he purchased a week ago. A faint furrow appears between his brows as the colors and shapes begin to blur into one looming mass. He slowly rises, socked feet shuffling across the small bedroom to take a closer look at his options. The clothes swing back and forth as he runs his fingers over the various fabrics.

Surveying his options, he realizes his favorite sweater has a minute stain on the collar which will need to be hand washed in cold water with a special delicate wool detergent before being laid out to dry flat. Plucking the garment off the hanger, he runs a thumb over the blemish. He takes a step back until his calves collide with the metal frame of his bed; springs squeak faintly as he settles back down on the mattress. 

Perhaps he could simply wear his work attire? Or. did he look too rumpled? What if Lucas expects him to dress up a bit? It was a special invitation after all. What if customs are dramatically different in Denmark? What if all his cultural guide books omitted something crucial in the way of dress codes? Business casual was appropriate for the little welcome party his colleagues organized at the Institute, however that was a luncheon rather than a proper dinner. 

What if he was meant to bring a gift? Beth always brought her friends wine, right? Did Lucas expect him to bring a bottle? Adam never acquired a taste for the stuff despite Beth's attempts at broadening his pallet. 

The tips of his fingers turn white as his grip tightens on the sweater. The material twists and warps in his hands. Curtailing the more destructive stimming, he takes several deep breaths. Instead he concentrations on running his thumbs over the knitwear, soothing himself with the repetition and soft texture.

Lucas never told him a set time to arrive by. It’s already almost six. He said after six, but how much after? When would be appropriate? When would be inappropriate?

It is too much, too quickly.

He still has to look up where Lucas lives. Check a reliable map on his laptop. Get walking directions. Make sure he understands the sometimes confusing or poorly worded directions and all the unfamiliar street names. Recheck the suggested path with the online map. Pull up a secondary map on his smartphone to follow on foot with his GPS tracker.

Dropping the sweater into his lap, Adam tugs at the knot of his tie, hastily undoing the first two buttons of his collar with trembling fingers. His breath comes in shallow puffs, a vibrating tension skittering under his skin. He stands, the pullover tumbling onto the floor in a mangled heap, and begins pacing back and forth in front of his closet.

The wrong move might lose him the tenuous friendship he has managed to forge with Lucas. It cannot end like it did with Beth. Not again. But what if Lucas invited other members of the neighborhood? He did say it would be a welcome meal? How many people are going to be there? Adults? Children? What if they expect him to be fluent? Or funny and charming or worse, some boorish American stereotype?

A writhing, roiling pain circulates in his stomach. He can feel the blood draining from his face. The tip of his nose going cold. 

The temptation to simply surrender to the onslaught of overwhelming anxiety, the easy desire to succumb to the paralytic. But some impulse inside tugs at him. He has to act. He cannot let whatever small connection he has with the other man fizzle because of his own anxieties.

Flipping through his wallet, Adam pulls out the receipt Lucas gave him the other night. He unfolds the scrap of paper, smoothing it out on his thigh while pulling his phone out of his pocket. Tracing over the thick black digits scrawled on the back, he dials the number before taking the time to belabor over the safety net of a script.

After a few rings, each trill causing an odd wave of nausea, Lucas answers with a loud, "Hej?". 

“I-I’m sorry.” Adam stumbles over the words in a rapid rush of air, scrunching his face as he pushes each syllable past the hard cut of his teeth and lips. “I’m feeling overloaded,” he manages to grit out, jaw clenched tight enough to completely butcher the flow of vowels into a harsh staccato. The familiar sounds of mounting anxiety twisting his vocal cords into a flat and strange tenor. Hollow, as Beth used to say. “I—uh…” He takes a deep breath, in through his nose, eyes squeezed tight. 

In the past his father would always take the lead on disclosing his diagnosis to family and friends, even Adam’s employers, but after he passed away and all the awkward stumbles with Beth Adam decided the best course of action would be to tell those he wanted to befriend. Not as an excuse but merely a request for understanding and maybe a little patience. Lucas would be the first test subject for his new self-prescribed methodology.

“Adam?” 

The soft vibrations filling his ear reminds him of the first day they met, when Lucas helped him successfully navigated and quell the early stirrings of a panic attack before it took hold. With the impeccably detailed vision of a faded shirt collar trapped beneath a blue knit sweater reassembling in his mind, Adam hears his own voice ask, “Do you know what A-asperger’s syndrome is?”

The phone line crackles, humming with a symphony of background noises, water boiling, what he assumes to be Fanny’s nails clicking on hardwood floors, the thrum of a large room pulsing with electricity.

“Asperger.” Lucas repeats the word, testing the weight and rolling it through the unique mold of his accent. A pause. “Ja,” he replies, clearing his throat before continuing in English, “yes, one of the boys who went to the kindergarten I work at was diagnosed with Asperger. We have had a few children with, uh, what do they call it now—autisme spektrum forstyrrelser.”

“Oh.”

A small fraction of the tension begins to dissipate as he opens his eyes. Staring blankly at the scrap of paper in his hands, a tremulous excitement threatens to overwhelm him completely. Lucas already knows about autism spectrum disorder. Lucas has experience with autistic children. Lucas teaches children. Like Beth. Adam barely has time to process the new information when the man’s quiet voice chimes in, “Don’t worry, I understand."

“Understand what?” Adam asks immediately, desperately trying to follow the nonlinear progression of Lucas’ logic.

“You are telling me you have Asperger's syndrome, correct?”

“Y-yes,” he stutters out, baffled by how quickly Lucas arrived at the correct conclusion. The ability to make such massive leaps and correct inferences from minimal facts an utterly unfathomable skill to Adam. 

“It makes social interactions difficult?” Lucas pauses, giving way to rustling fabric, an excited yap from Fanny quickly followed by a muffled shushing. Adam winces at the rush of noises. When the voice returns he notices the rounded accent sounds more prominent than before. “You get-hvordan har du siger du d-overloaded?”

“Yes.” Adam nods, jostling the phone crammed between his ear and shoulder. An immediate panic grips him, the unshakable fear that Lucas might see his explanation as Adam shutting down all avenues of friendship. “I do want to have dinner with you, Lucas," he states emphatically, hoping to salvage the rare social invitation by a potential friend. "I just can’t right now.”

“That’s fine, we can have dinner another time,” Lucas offers, triggering a warm wave of relief. “When you feel ready.”

“I would like that,” he responds slowly, staring down at the large lower loops of Lucas’ handwriting, particularly evident on his eights and threes. Graphology had never held any interest for him before but something about the fullness of his loops piques Adam's curiosity. He wonders how his own writing compares.

“Great! Just call or find me at the market,” Lucas chuckles before saying his goodbye.

 

 

Adam spends the week emotionally preparing for the following Friday. Statistically, he knows he will have the highest likelihood of running into Lucas at the shop that day. Like most neurotypicals Adam encounters, Lucas always seems to stock up on groceries before the weekend, as if something might bar him from attaining sustenance and other various supplies over the next two days. Adam only goes whenever he runs out. Finding and asking him to dinner at the supermarket rather than scheduling a future appointment avoids a myriad of issues; dress code, presents, navigation, timing. The reward far outweighs the risk. After all, Lucas did offer it as a viable option.

After a quarter of an hour methodically pacing up and down each aisle, loitering in the deli section where he often encounters Lucas, nearly abandoning his plan a half dozen times, Adam spots the familiar lines of straight shoulders and long legs. The older man stands alone, scrutinizing the numerous shelves of soups opposite him. Staring down at the uneven double knot of Lucas’ laces, the bulging cargo pockets at his thighs, Adam quietly sidles up beside him with short, tentative steps. The fabric is faded slightly along the outline of, most likely, a wallet or cell phone; an old, well-worn pair of trousers Adam has seen him wear several times before. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come over last week.” Lucas relaxes his grip on the grocery basket dangling from his left hand. 

“It’s okay, Adam,” he responds, grabbing a box of gule ærter from the shelf. Adam wrinkles his nose at the unappetizing image on the soup’s label but consciously refrains from commenting. “Thank you for calling.” Adam nods, enthralled by the long fingers wrapping around the package, blue veins shifting under pale skin and prominent knuckles. Absorbed with the task of memorizing the fluctuating topography of the man's hand, Adam misses the soft eyed smile Lucas casts his way in the ensuing pause.

Taking a small step closer, Adam silently mouths the carefully constructed line he has attempted to perfect while rehearsing it several times throughout the week. He clears his throat, preparing to finally repeat the words aloud, eyes now fixed on the fine bones of Lucas' wrist. They seem so different from his own; sturdy yet delicate, some strange paradox that begs further examination; like much of Lucas.

He wonders what those contours might feel like beneath his fingertips. Would Lucas’ skin feel like his own, like Beth’s or maybe Harlan’s? Or perhaps he has his own texture, something uniquely Lucas.    

Adam’s fingers twitch at his side.

“I would like to have dinner tonight,” he blurts out, thankful that his voice, while raised above a normal volume, does not waver. Shifting his weight, Adam stuffs both hands into his pockets in a conscious effort to squelch the need to test his tactile hypothesis. "With you," he tacks on, realizing he forgot the most important part of his prepared statement. He does not want any room for potential misunderstanding. 

“Great.” Lucas turns toward him. He glances up and catches a glimpse of the broad smile and glinting glasses. “Let’s find some cheese,” he advises, reaching out to touch the crook of Adam’s elbow. A cold shock runs through him when the gentle hand alights on his arm. It's not an unpleasant sensation, just a little unexpected. Adam takes a halting step forward at the gentle tug of Lucas' hand, eager to follow him back to the soft hum of the refrigerated dairy case.

 

 

Once making the short walk back to Lucas' home, after letting Fanny out for a bit and quickly unpacking the small bag of groceries, Lucas shows Adam around his kitchen. Once acquainted with the space, Lucas begins walking him through the surprisingly simple preparations for his ‘Danish macaroni and cheese’. Per Adam’s request, as they boil the elbow macaroni and grate their chosen cheeses, Lucas diligently prompts the other man to identify and describe all the different foodstuffs in Danish.

While challenging, Adam is surprised by the unexpected rush of excitement he experiences while learning the language with Lucas’ help; almost akin to the beginning of a minor special interest. Every once in a while he draws a blank or mispronounces a word, allowing Lucas to gently correct him with the same slight, eye crinkling smile he wore outside the market. Patiently, Lucas repeats the new word twice, once at half speed then again normally. Adam pays particular attention to the way Lucas holds his mouth as he forms each syllable, the bend and curve of his lips, flitting glimpses of a glistening pink tongue.

“You are a very good teacher, Lucas,” Adam tells him after successfully pronouncing emballage for the first time.

“Thank you,” he smiles again, this one smaller, somehow softer at the edges but still enough to cause his glasses to slip just a fraction of the way down his nose. The tiny detail feels important for Adam to remember. “Now, just sprinkle the cheese…” Lucas instructs, standing beside Adam with a bowl filled with steaming hot noodles.

Adam stares blankly at the peculiarly simple dish. It looks very different from any iteration of mac and cheese he has ever consumed before. He dumps in several spoonfuls of cheese and watch Lucas mix and stir the buttered noodles around. With a few more ample helping of a shredded cheese layered in, all melting together in a large serving bowl, Lucas declares the meal ready to eat.

“Trust me,” Lucas says with a laugh after examining Adam’s reaction to the final product, “it tastes very good.”

Together they gather up the utensils and dishes, a separate bowl full of additional cheese to sprinkle in as desired, and relocated to the dining room. They settle on opposite sides of a long dinner table that seems far too big for a man who lives alone. In fact, gazing at the length of the table and the set of six matching chairs, the house seems better suited to a family rather than a bachelor. An odd choice. Just as Adam prepares to give voice to this observation, Lucas leans forward to ask his own question.

“How is it?” He inquires, tilting his head to the left as he waits for Adam’s response.

He pauses, deeply considering the various flavors filling his mouth, the slight but acceptable variation in texture. He scoops up several noodles onto his fork and takes another experimental bite. Lucas’ recipe lacks a creamy base sauce that Adam usually loves but the freshly grated cheese supplies a bolder taste. The overall dish, in Lucas’ hands, seems more concerned with the harmony and balance of cheese and pasta rather than the homogeneous stew-like quality of his usual frozen ready meals.

“Different," Adam answers slowly, moving the food over his tongue. Knowing the statement lacks a value judgement that Lucas is most likely seeking, he continues with an honest appraisal, "but good. Flavorful.” He nods in approval after swallowing the bite. “Much better than either of the frozen dinner brands you have available here in Denmark.” Brows drawn in concentration, he eats another forkful as he continues evaluating the dish. “Though, perhaps not as good as my favorite brand back home.”

“High praise from a macaroni and cheese connoisseur.” Lucas grins, a flash of crooked teeth. “I’m glad you like it.” His tone drops to a lower register. Adam notices a faint dusting of color rushing into his cheeks as he ducks his head; the gesture oddly reminiscent of his own usual behavior.

“It is more time consuming to make but I enjoyed the process of cooking with you,” Adam continues his assessment, offering up a fleeting smile, appearing somewhat stilted despite the sincerity, before delving back into his dinner.

“So,” Lucas begins, dragging out the word as he busies himself with plucking up the bowl of grated cheese. Fascinated, Adam studies the way Lucas gingerly portions out another helping. Sifting a few unnecessary layers off the top, he precisely measures out the perfect amount to adequately cover his remaining noodles. “Did you move by yourself or did someone…?” He trails off, preoccupied with distributing the melting cheese around in his bowl; metal tinkling against glazed ceramic.

“Yes,” Adam answers simply.

After a long pause, he runs the question back through his mind and begins to suspect Lucas had actually been asking a longer question but was unsure how to phrase it so as not to somehow offend Adam. He does his best to piece together the most logical conclusion to the abandoned question.

“Beth was supposed to move with me,” he elaborates calmly, picking up the serving spoon lying beside the pot of grated cheese. In the back of his mind, he recognizes the lingering warmth radiating from the metal, sucked from the heat of Lucas’ broad palm. Now his own hand absorbs the residual warmth. “She changed her mind so I moved here on my own.” He allows a deluge of cheese to slip off the sides of the utensil as he shakes it over his bowl, stirring the fresh layer into the curled macaroni.

"Oh." The faint, round sound comes out as a rush of air, almost as if involuntary. "Are you two still dating?” Lucas asks, making yet another correct assumption about Adam with such scant information.

“We are just friends now.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs the customary and wholly unnecessary apology upon hearing sad news, quietly placing his fork back into his bowl without taking another bite.

“I don’t have many friends, so I’m happy to keep her as one.” He glances up with a quivering smile only to find Lucas’ gaze trained on his dinner as it grows cold, the cheese congealing into a bright orange mass.

He observes the other man as the conversation comes to a confusing halt. A memory of how Beth would react to conversations about her father’s trial right before they had their big fight floats to the surface of his mind. He gradually begins detecting a dull resonance of the same tension in Lucas’ slumped body language, head hanging low, spine curling in on itself ever so slightly, the lack of response.

Something is wrong.

“You seem uncomfortable,” he says slowly, a tentative venture awaiting some clear confirmation that his assessment was accurate. He makes no assumptions about the root cause, proud enough to have potentially perceived an accurate change in Lucas’ mood.

The man purses his lips, the creases around his mouth deeper than before. He needlessly readjusts his glasses, pushing up the bridge of the wire frames with his index finger.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Adam offers. 

“No, no, it’s okay.” Lucas waves a hand, leaning straight backed in his chair.

One hand skims the length of his thigh, bunching the fabric at his knee. Adam watches the way his thumb brushes over the bony outlines of the joint, back and forth, back and forth, almost akin to stimming in its repetitive soothing nature. The movement stops, his hand floating back up to rest on the table beside his bowl.

“I was only thinking how I wish my marriage had ended on such happy terms,” he continues, picking at the remaining noodles, turning one over with the long tines of his fork before impaling it on the end of the utensil. A bit of melted cheese clings to the ceramic surface. With a deft rotation of his wrist, Lucas twines the stringy cheese around the macaroni. “Would be much easier on my son.” He pops the single piece of macaroni into his mouth, the harsh click of teeth on metal briefly grating against Adam’s ears.

“You have a son?”

As the words leave his tongue, he realizes he had not considered Lucas’ life beyond their fragile friendship or what it might entail, other than the newest information that he worked at a local kindergarten. That he may have a proper family and other closer friends and even children never once crossed his mind. In retrospect, it was silly to think Lucas was as lonely as Adam. A man as gentle and handsome as he would be popular and easily have found a partner and procreated.

Suddenly, Adam feels very small; an intruder on a world of quaint domesticity he was never meant to inhabit.

“Ja, Marcus. He—”

The electronic trill of Lucas’ mobile phone throws them both off. Adam feels his face contort in a twist of pain at the harsh sounds compounding his jarring sense of displacement. Lucas drags the noisy device from his trouser pocket, quickly checking the illuminated display. Wide eyed behind his glasses, he huffs a laugh.

“Sorry, that’s him now,” he quickly apologizes, rising to his feet, “I’ll try to be quick.” He briefly places a hand on Adam’s shoulder before stepping back into the kitchen to speak with his son privately.

Abandoned in a state of confusion, Adam sits quietly, hands tightly folded in his lap while patiently waiting for Lucas to return. As he considers whether or not to bolt without saying goodbye, his eyes begin to wander around the cozy living room, taking in the odd collection of CDs, a stack of drawings peeking out behind some records, signed ‘Marcus’ in a childish scrawl, alongside what look like old paper targets. Judging from the grouping of pinpricks, Lucas must have excellent aim despite his poor eyesight. A steady hand. He wonders if Lucas applies his skill to hunting or if he is merely a marksman. 

From the kitchen comes a loud, low groan of, “Kristen,” a dull thunk quickly followed by the sound of a door being yanked open rather forcefully. He catches a glimpse of Lucas slipping out the backdoor, without throwing on a jacket. 

A moment later, a faint whimper echoes through the house. Glancing over to the kitchen windows with a few jittery bobs of his head, Adam spots Lucas pacing back and forth with a deep set frown, still absorbed in his phone call. The whimper becomes a steady high pitched whine that pulls at Adam. He opens his mouth a few times, unsure whether to call for Lucas or to take control of the situation himself. With a few measured movements, he slides out of his seat, leaving the living room in search of what has caused Fanny such distress.

He finds her upstairs in what he assumes is Lucas’ bedroom. Reaching the top of the stairs, he flips on a lamp and looks around the furnished attic. The entire space is suffused with a distinct scent. Clean laundry, pine and a bit of dog hair. Idly, he wonders if Lucas smells similar up close. It is a rather pleasant combination despite the tinge of Fanny’s canine odor, not overwhelming and cloying like perfume or hair products most people reek of in daily life.

Fanny trots over to greet him, head low, paws clicking along the hardwood.

“Hey, Fanny,” Adam smiles, crouching down to hold his hand out to pet her head. The dog licks Adam’s palm before turning to lead him over to the opposite side of the room. She stops in front of a short bookshelf with a low snuffle. Wedged behind the bottom shelf is a bright yellow tennis ball. “Oh, it's stuck.” He crouches down, retrieving the toy for her. “Here you go.” Tossing the ball, it does not even have a chance to bounce once before Fanny catches it in her waiting jaws. She drops it at his feet with a high pitched yap, nudging his hands with her muzzle. With a little laugh, he throws it again. She snaps it up with ease.

Glancing up, Adam spots the large skylight window above the shelf that leads out onto the slanted roof. Obscured with condensation and the beginnings of frost, he can just make out the glinting belt of stars scattered across the night sky. The image impossibly alluring. He quickly locates the latch and shoves open the thick window. Fingertips frozen, he struggles with its heavy weight until wedging it open just wide enough to pass through. A set of expensive binoculars rest on the uppermost shelf. He snatches them up, slinging the pair around his neck.

The small bookshelf wobbles as he tests his weight on one of the shelves. Fanny drops her ball, yapping again as he trembles on the makeshift ladder. Carefully, he clambers up, using all his coordination to crawl out the narrow opening and on to the flattest section of the roof below the window. The hard shingles are cold beneath his hands and socked feet. Below, he easily locates Lucas, arms tucked around his hunched figure, small puffs of breath visible in the light pouring from the kitchen. A few disjointed syllables of Danish audible from the rooftop.

He settles down, cold seeping through the seat of his trousers. He brings the binoculars to his face, meticulously adjusting the diopter. Everything else falls away as the night sky comes into sharp focus.

 

 

“Adam?” Lucas calls from somewhere inside the house. Startled, Adam drops the binoculars, the heavy pair knocking against his sternum. He hears the patter of feet slowly trundling up the staircase, striding across the room and eliciting a bark from Fanny. “Adam?” Lucas’ head pops out of the open window. His drawn brow, wide-eyed expression changes, falling into a crinkling smile that temporarily banishes all previous anxieties about interloping. “Hey, sorry about that.”

He disappears for a moment, leaving Adam to stare blankly at the empty space until the window swings open wide with a forceful shove. Reappearing with a dark blue flannel blanket folded over his arm, cautious and a little stiff limbed, Lucas climbs out on to the roof. His cargo pockets bulge and clank strangely as he gingerly settles down on an empty patch of freezing cold shingles beside Adam.

“I see you’ve found my favorite spot in all of Denmark,” he laughs, handing Adam the blanket to drape over his shoulders. Only when the fabric encircles him does he realized how chilled he had become.

With a quiet groan, Lucas pulls out two dark brown bottles from his pockets before crossing his long legs. The material of his trousers hitches up, exposing the bony ball joint of his right ankle. A slice of pale skin and a light dusting of hair visible between the cuff of his pant leg and the thick woollen sock.

The same impulse from earlier, the confounding need to touch, rises up from the pit of his stomach. Gripping the corners of the blanket, he wraps it tightly around himself, palms pressed together, trapping them between his thighs. Dragging his gaze away from his companion, Adam looks back up to the heavens.

“I’ve never been able to see the night sky like this with the naked eye before.” Adam explains with a rare, wide grin that shows all his top teeth and pink gums. “There is so little light pollution out here. At least compared to New York.”

Beneath the folds of the blanket he begins fiddling with Lucas’ binoculars. He absentmindedly runs his fingers over the grooves and ridges of hard plastic.

“On the Bortle Scale it’s a four. Maybe four and a half,” he starts speaking in a rush of excitement, his inflections oscillating wildly. Even knowing his special interest babbling will begin shortly does nothing to hinder its inexorable momentum. Perhaps Lucas will simple let it run its course rather than the way Beth would yank on his arm or switch topics abruptly. “Whereas Manhattan is usually a solid nine. Very difficult to see anything other than the brightest—meaning the moon and the north star. Occasionally on clear nights I could see Orion’s belt.” He points to the most easily recognizable constellation, each pinprick of light shining bright in the cloudless night sky spreading out over Denmark.

The hissing pop of a bottle being cracked open momentarily derails him.

“I, uh,” he glances over to see Lucas opening the second bottle with a multipurpose wine key, “I usually watch special documentaries or look up photographs on my laptop in order to see anything else.” He drops a corner of flannel to gesture to the twinkling night sky before them. “Something more like this.” Wrapping his blanketed arms around his knees, he pulls them closer to his chest with a broad grin.

“The Bortle Scale?” Lucas asks, head tilted as he hands Adam the opened bottle. As he holds out his offering, Lucas takes a drink from his own dark glass bottle. Closely examining the label, he notes the bold ‘øl’ before warily accepting the alcoholic beverage. His fingers brush over Lucas’ knuckles, a little rough and dry but warm to the touch; much warmer than Adam’s own chilly hands. The brief contact only fuels his curiosity. Instead of obsessing over each tactile detail encountered, categorizing it to revisit and compare with past experiences at a later time, he forces himself to take a tentative sip of the proffered brew. Straightaway, Adam grimaces at the bitter taste, drawing out a laugh from Lucas. “Don’t worry, after a month you’ll love it,” he assures him, his right shoulder bumping gently against Adam’s left.

“I doubt that.” Adam responds with a deadpan expression, an attempt at the more conventional bonding tactic of teasing banter. Beth had always liked the rare moments he would try and make a joke.

It brings another laugh from Lucas. Watching the expression spread over the other man’s face, the crinkles of skin and faint flush, Adam feels a laugh escape his own mouth, quiet and breathy but a laugh. An ephemeral lightness of excitement fills him, encouraging him to answer Lucas’ previous question. 

“The Bortle Scale is a simplified, quantifiable scale from one to nine that expresses night sky brightness of a particular location. Basically, an easy way to denote light pollution.” He gestures to the dim haze hanging over Copenhagen directly behind them and then to the vast darkness stretching out before them. “One being the most optimal for observing the night sky and nine denoting near complete obscurity of all celestial bodies.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucas replies. “I think my English is a little out of practice.” A deep crease forms between his brows; Lucas has spoken nothing but perfect English since their first interaction. “Cel-es-tial bodies?” He fumbles with the word, slurring over the first two syllables to hit the final one with too much emphasis. “What kind of body do you mean?”

“Oh,” Adam responds immediately, glancing over and accidentally meeting the other man’s eyes for a moment. With a jerk of his head, he resolutely drops his gaze, staring down at the glass bottle in his hands. “Celestial,” he pronounces it slowly for Lucas. “From the Latin, caelum, meaning heaven or sky.” When he hears a soft hum from Lucas he continues quoting an amalgam of different text books and online resources he encountered over the course of his life. “A celestial body is a naturally occurring physical entity with a cohesive structure that is bound together by gravity and sometimes by electromagnetism which is located outside of Earth’s atmosphere. It may consist of multiple independent astronomical bodies or objects such as the Moon, a planet, star clusters, nebulae or entire galaxies.”

“Ah, himmellegeme,” Lucas mumbles in Danish.

“What?”

“In Danish it is himmellegeme,” he explains, slowly repeating the expression while trying to clearly forming each phoneme. “A heavenly body.”

“Himmel-lame?” Adam tries to wrap his mouth around the word, struggling slightly with the second syllable.

“Softer.” Lucas leans closer to demonstrate, gesturing with his beer bottle for Adam to focus on his mouth. Adam watches the fluid curves of Lucas’ ruddy lips as he forms the word once more, shiny in the moonlight with beer and saliva. The swell of his lower lip catches, sticking ever so slightly to the fleshy protrusion of his top lip before peeling free as he murmurs the reoccurring ‘m’ sound.

Adam asks him to repeat it one more time, recklessly indulging in the hypnotic beauty of Lucas’ mouth forming the foreign word. He could watch the movement over and over and over until he has memorized each detail and still would ask him to say it again. 

“You try.”

Blinking rapidly, Adam licks his own lips, taking a nervous swig from his bitter beer. He coughs a little, balking at the taste before attempting to repeating the word again. Lucas gives him the same nod and a smile from earlier during their naming game in the kitchen.

“There is also a constellation of the same name. The Latin, caelum. It resembles a chisel—an alternate definition of the word.” He looks up at the sky to quickly locate the grouping of stars. “You can see it just there in the southern part of the sky.” Adam instructs, pointing to the faint constellation while Lucas leans forward intently.

“Wow,” Lucas sighs as he gazes up at the night sky, adjusting his glasses. “Celestial,” he repeats, rolling the word on his tongue. It comes out sounding far more exotic, elevated to a different form of beauty by his unique accent. “Celestial.” Each syllable imprints on Adam’s mind, locked away to revisit each and every time he encounters the word. The beginnings of a long dormant exhilaration warming his belly.

“I’m sorry,” he responds, twisting the bottle around in his hands, “I talk too much when I get excited.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s very interesting.” The swell of Lucas’ larynx bobs in his throat as he swallows another mouthful of bitter beer. He reaches over, so casually and with such ease, to nudge Adam’s elbow with the neck of his beer bottle. The cold glass makes an impression, sending a shiver up his spine despite the layers of warm clothing. “Can you show me where the planets are?” He gestures to the heavens with a tip of his bottle.

More than anything that preceded, the request itself sparks something sweet and frustratingly nebulous within Adam. A bright, nameless emotion expanding inside his chest, colliding with the warm thrill circulating throughout his stomach. Something like the itching of a scratch he did not know was bothering him so profoundly until being grazed.

A small smile appears on Lucas’ face. Somehow, it is entirely different from all the other smiles the man often wears around Adam. He has tried to record them all in his memory, cataloging the subtle differences in order to decipher the unique intent behind each one. This one, though, strikes him profoundly, a singular expression that almost seems to change his entire face despite appearing so slight a movement of muscle and skin. 

Adam tries to mimic it. 

“Of course.”

He’s not sure if he gets it exactly right, but still, it feels nice.


End file.
